


(Remembering) Mistletoe and Sand

by Neurotoxia



Series: Nights of Christmas Past [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst and Humor, Christmas, Christmas Tree, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Sherlock's Deductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is where the heart is. Be it Afghanistan or Baker Street; on Christmas in particular, John Watson finds this saying to be true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Remembering) Mistletoe and Sand

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment of my **Nights of Christmas Past** series. Like the [first story](http://neurotoxia.livejournal.com/48936.html), it was written for [221B Advent](http://221b-advent.livejournal.com/)'s Advent Calendar. The following parts will be up soon, each focussing on a different character's experiences on Christmas over the years.  
>  Once again, I have to thank [shiningskyline](http://shiningskyline.livejournal.com) for her swift and helpful britpicking and beta-work, and [penombrelilas](http://penombrelilas.livejournal.com) for enduring my whining and their taking the story apart to make it better! They have written a Molly-centric companion piece to this, called [Knitting Souls Together](http://archiveofourown.org/works/591956), and you should definitely go and read it!

# I.

* * *

_Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan_

There was something wrong with Christmas in a desert. Although Afghanistan was cold in December, it didn’t drop far below freezing. John didn’t miss the snow -- there had never been much of that in London either -- but being surrounded by little but sand was weird. He might miss the familiar English scenery he was used to at Christmas.

He knew he should feel bad about the English atmosphere being what he missed the most on Christmas but he couldn’t bring himself to pretend it was otherwise. Nobody was waiting for him at home aside from an alcoholic father and sister, and a mother who ignored that two family members were drinking themselves to a slow death. In fact, she resented John far more for his military career than she did Harry for her antics.

He hadn’t hesitated for a second when he was offered the deployment and had yet to regret it. John’s mother would do a good job making him feel guilty later when he phoned her, but he was used to guilt anyway. He had been trained in it since childhood.

The mess was decorated with frankly garish lights, and garlands which could only be described as tacky but John supposed that aesthetics was generally not a strong suit amongst most soldiers here. A few Christmas trees had also found their way into the camp, their branches hanging low from the decorations. Most of the soldiers, including John, wore Santa’s hats or plush reindeer antlers. It was ridiculous, but at least everybody joined in.

“Oi, Watson, wake up! Turkey’s here!” a fellow soldier -- Blackwood -- nearly yelled in John’s ear and shook him out of his reverie. The kitchen staff carried huge amounts of turkey, roast potatoes, gravy, steamed vegetables and Christmas pudding to the food distribution.

“Let’s go grab some then!” John grinned and joined Blackwood.

As they waited in line, Blackwood told him about his wife and their little son who had just turned two and spoken his first full sentence. It was easy to see how proud he was. John felt bad for people that had a family waiting at home who would love to spend Christmas with them. More than one of his comrades had flashed around the newest pictures of their girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives and children. John didn’t have anything of that kind to show; his friends would have been more shocked if he had. His reputation alleged that he changed partners frequently and John couldn’t quite deny that. Whether he liked it, didn’t care about it or found it depressing varied based on his mood.

“Round of cards after dinner?” Blackwood asked when they sat down at their table, trays laden with food.

“Sounds good to me,” John said, cracking open a can of beer. He had patrol duty tomorrow, so he could indulge in a few beers and rounds of poker tonight.

Someday, John wanted to celebrate Christmas at his own place in London with only the people he liked and cared about and who wanted to be there. A nice and cosy Christmas party with friends. Until then, the award for best holiday celebrations would go to deployment in Afghanistan.

  


# II.

* * *

What had prompted him to agree to celebrate Christmas with Harry, John would never know. Maybe it was yet another attempt to build bridges with his older sister, although John had probably kissed that idea goodbye when he was still in his teens and just didn’t like to admit it. It was a sad thing that this was the most preferable option out of his choices of how to spend Christmas. The alternatives being alone or with his parents; and John avoided Christmas at his parents’ house with all his might. His father was a distanced alcoholic and his mother was emotionally worn out from years of trying to make up for all her husband’s flaws. John wondered if it really made much of a difference whether he was at Harry’s or at his parents’.

The tense silence and clink of silverware against porcelain rang in John’s ears. Resentments hovered over the table and he knew this evening would not end without at least one string of accusations thrown at each other’s heads.

“The turkey is great, Clara!” John said in an attempt to break the ice and smiled at his sister’s wife across the table.

Clara beamed at the compliment. “Thank you, John.”

Harry did not chime in, more interested in her fourth glass of red wine than the meal. How Harry had managed to keep Clara this long was mystery to John. She was too good for his alcoholic sister, which was why John had been counting on her to make Harry a better person. Or at least put a stop to the drinking, but attempts at sobriety were aborted soon enough.

“I’m looking forward to dessert.” John added.

His sister eyed him over her plate with light suspicion and John bit back a litany of bitter sarcasm. He couldn’t say anything nice to Clara without Harry thinking that he was up to something; the early realization that he and Harry shared a taste in women made things difficult. John had admittedly fancied Clara when she and Harry had first started dating but he had never attempted to hit on her. Why would he? It irked him that Harry was being so irrational. While John was confident in his abilities, they didn’t extend as far as converting lesbian women.

Meanwhile, his sister started to busy herself with opening another bottle of wine, earning her a concerned look from Clara.

“Harry, we should save that one for dessert, shouldn’t we?” she asked softly so as not to stir up Harry’s defensive behaviour. It pained John to notice that Clara had started to look as exhausted and hurt as his mother.

And of course, Harry had to be obtuse on purpose. She uncorked the bottle and poured herself some more wine. “Why? It’s not like there’s nothing left after this one.”

John stabbed his turkey with with more force than was necessary, reciting a nonsense mantra in his head to keep him from snapping at his sister. All the while, he wished he was back in Afghanistan.

  


# III.

* * *

“No.”

John nearly jumped out of his armchair when Sherlock’s voice suddenly manifested right behind him together with the Consulting Detective himself. He wore his pyjamas and dressing gown -- no new case then -- and had his arms crossed over his chest.

“No, what?” John asked with one eyebrow raised when Sherlock slumped into his own armchair and grabbed his laptop.

“No Christmas tree.”

“Who said anything about a Christmas tree?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the laptop screen but rolled his eyes all the same. Apparently, John had missed something again. He didn’t have any idea what though.

“You did, John.”

“I didn’t. When do you think I said anything about a Christmas tree?” John flipped a page of the catalogue he had been looking at, now crinkled at the edges from clenching his fists in surprise.

His flatmate sighed in the most dramatic manner available to him. Yes, John, the mere mortal couldn’t follow Sherlock Holmes’ train of thought; how inconvenient. “You thought about it. You want a Christmas tree for the flat and I’m giving my answer to the expected question: No.”

“How could you possibly know I was thinking about putting a tree up?”

“Once again, you’re missing all the clues: You’ve been looking at decorations in the catalogue, you remained significantly longer on the pages with Christmas trees. Furthermore, you smell of fir needles, indicating that you’ve spent a considerable amount of time around them. Not many places in central London where you naturally find firs and it’s unlikely you’d touch one without reason. You have resin on your fingers judging by the way the pages of that catalogue are sticking to your fingertips. Considering the time of the year and the mud pattern on your shoes, the only likely conclusion is that you’ve been to a seller near Regent’s Park to look at potential Christmas trees,” Sherlock rattled off, gesticulating towards John who was torn between staring at his best friend and picking resin from his fingertips.

“Alright, yes. I passed by a seller and checked out the trees. What’s so bad about a Christmas tree?”

“John, the Christmas tree is a useless decoration that clutters up space which could be used more efficiently. It holds no meaning to the real holiday, it’s just some pagan ritual originating from the Roman Empire. Then again, one might always interject that we’re celebrating Jesus’ birthday in December although he was born in summer and only moved it to fall on the event of the winter solstice to make it easier for all those pagans to convert to Christianity. Neither you nor I are religious, John. So why would you want a tree?”

John blinked at Sherlock, more than a bit surprised. “Wait, you deleted the solar system and the name of the Queen, but you retained _that_ information?!”

“I used it a few times to try and convince my mother not to erect several Christmas trees around our house,” Sherlock murmured and frowned. “It wasn’t very useful but I hoped it might work on you.”

“Well, tough luck. I don’t want a tree for religious reasons, Sherlock. I just like having one; they give the place a nice atmosphere. And you better shut up about a tree taking up space when you clutter up the whole flat,” John answered in a dry tone and nudged a stack of magazines in Sherlock’s direction with his foot.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not clutter if it’s useful, John.”

“Yeah, sure,” John murmured and got up to prepare some tea for Sherlock and himself. “Anyway, your point is moot since I already bought a tree. It’s downstairs in the hall.”

That one, Sherlock hadn’t deduced -- the surprise on his face said as much. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Because I figured you either wouldn’t care or you’d just sprout some rubbish on why we shouldn’t have one,” John called from the kitchen and filled the kettle with water from the tap. He smirked, pleased that he had managed to catch Sherlock unawares. It didn’t happen often, so he basked in the rare glow. Sherlock might pout for a while now, but that he could handle.

“How pedestrian of you. And now you plan on decorating the poor fir with all kinds of glittery, tacky ornaments that insult any kind of aesthetic sense?” Ah, the pout was already in full swing. Sherlock was indeed a sore loser.

John couldn’t help smiling when he came back with two mugs of steaming tea and handed one to Sherlock who only grumbled and took a sip. “I had something different in mind. I’m surprised you haven’t deduced the contents of the box by the fireplace yet. Have a look.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to the box he didn’t seem to have paid any attention to until now. Intrigued, he grabbed the lid and dragged it over to his chair to rummage through the contents. The smile grew more and more on John’s face until Sherlock straightened again, ornaments dangling from his fingers -- small skulls, revolvers, magnifying glasses and, of which John was particularly proud, a miniature deerstalker.

“ _Really_ , John?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow but John saw the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I thought conventional ornaments would be a little boring, don’t you agree?” he answered before he broke into a fit of giggles. Sherlock joined him a few seconds later, throwing the little deerstalker at John’s head.

  


# IV.

* * *

People often wondered why so many family tragedies happened at Christmas, why the homicide and suicide rate skyrocketed during a time that was supposed to bring happiness. Considering his own murderous thoughts, John didn’t wonder much.

He was in his parent’s sitting room with Harry, his mother and father around the table, engaged in dinner. The radio announcer flaunted his cheerful mood over the stereo on the shelf and if John had brought his gun, he’d probably shoot the radio just to make a point.

Back with his parents and Harry for Christmas -- the scenario he had been trying to avoid for years. John knew it was his own fault, he could have stayed at home -- although that rundown bedsit really didn’t qualify as such -- watch telly, eat take away and open a can of beer. Although that sounded like the better alternative on the surface, the truth was that he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of being alone for Christmas, not after last year.

He had briefly thought about asking Mrs Hudson if they should spend Christmas together but didn’t go through with it. It was too early. That, and being at Baker Street for Christmas without Sherlock seemed impossible to imagine. Mrs Hudson had a sister to spend Christmas with, she surely preferred that to dinner with a former tenant.

“John, what about your work?” his mother asked, jerking John out of his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Still locum work at a small practice.”

“Shouldn’t you have found a full-time position by now with all your _qualifications_?” His mother frowned at him, stressing the last word. Here he was, being needled again for his decision to sign up for the army in order to be able to study medicine. She had never approved of that career path.

“Jobs don’t grow on trees, mum. Besides, I’m still not cleared to work full-time.”

Cue his father snorting in disbelief. “Psych crap. Man up, John.”

Harry put her glass down -- water for the moment. “Daddy!” she hissed, outraged. His sister was being the most tactful person in the room, which spoke volumes about their family. John’s father didn’t believe in mental health issues -- one reason why John would have never gone to stay with his parents after his discharge.

“It’s fine, Harry,” John murmured and took a sip of his wine. He didn’t want to start an argument or let Harry start one. Their mother was restless, scared that another fight might break out. It was quite obvious from her tense shoulders and how her eyes flicked over to observe the rest of the family. He hair was a bit ruffled, which indicated that she had spent a long time working on making everything nice -- Well, crap. He was deducing his own mother; albeit not as thoroughly as Sherlock would have. _Sherlock..._

“It’s not _fine_. You’re an arse, Daddy. John was injured in the war and his best friend just died, could you --”

That was enough. “Harry, can we not bring this up, _please_?” The last thing he wanted to talk about today was Sherlock. John couldn’t stomach the memory of his friend during a miserable Christmas dinner -- he already found it difficult to refrain from being overwhelmed with sadness on good days.

He wanted last year’s Christmas back. Christmas with Sherlock and the party with their friends was the best celebration John had ever had -- minus the supposed death of Irene Adler. Right, he didn’t want to think about Sherlock today. Not too much, at least.

Stony silence had settled over the table. Harry and their father still continues to glare at each other, their mother kept her eyes glued to her plate and John fixed his gaze on the wine glass before him. John picked at his roast for a few more minutes but his appetite had vanished. Excusing himself, he took his glass and wandered out of the sitting room to settle in the small conservatory. A thin layer of snow had spread over the grass and bushes in the garden. It looked so peaceful that John didn’t even turn the lights on and just sat in the dim room.

He still missed Sherlock so much. John had lost people before, but losing Sherlock made him feel like something vital had been ripped out of him. Or rather that he had been torn out of everything that had made him feel good and alive again -- his feelings these days often varied between exposed, vulnerable and useless. Some people had called him Sherlock’s heart -- and Moriarty had gone and burned the heart out of Sherlock, thrown it aside, and for some reason it was still beating, but without purpose or protection.

The last months had been the toughest war John had ever fought. It was much worse than after his discharge, and even then, the gun in the drawer had been tempting on the darkest of days. Sometimes, it took a lot of willpower to leave it locked in his cupboard. John fought the war for Sherlock, he might lose a battle now and then, but he was determined to come out of this as the winner. Sherlock didn’t deserve and wouldn’t have accepted any less. He had given John a new life, and John didn’t want to throw that all away. Even more than that, someone needed to remember Sherlock for who he really had been: an astonishing, brilliant and caring man who had devoted his life to fighting crime without wanting anything in return, be it fame or money.

His plan to keep Sherlock out of his mind today wasn’t going well. He might just torture himself a bit more then.

With a sigh, John pulled his mobile from his pocket, contemplating it for a second before unlocking the screen. The cold light from the device illuminated John’s face in the dark. His finger hovered over the message icon, then he pressed it and scrolled down a few months to pull up the conversation thread labelled _Sherlock Holmes_. John had never deleted any of Sherlock’s texts and couldn’t bring himself to do so now. He resisted skimming through hundreds of messages Sherlock had sent over the eighteen months they had known each other. While licking his bottom lip nervously, he composed a text.

  


>   
>  To: Sherlock Holmes -- 25/12, 20:49   
>  _Come back, you git. Harry and my parents are horrible company. Merry Christmas. JW_   
> 

  
_Bloody hell, I’m texting a dead man. Ella would have a field day_ , John thought when he hit send. Still, it felt better than talking to a headstone -- it felt more like Sherlock. Surely his number would be out of service by now, but it didn’t matter.

His mobile chimed a minute later and John nearly jumped out of his skin, spilling wine on the conservatory’s tiled floor. With a trembling hand, he took the phone from the low table next to him, his heart running a mile a minute. _That was impossible._

John almost didn’t dare to look at the screen.

When he did, he read the name _Greg Lestrade_ with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Just a coincidence. He wasn’t going mad yet.

  


>   
>  To: John Watson -- 25/12 20:51   
>  _Up for a pint? I’m driving myself up the wall._   
> 

  
The message put a small smile on John’s face -- Greg had proven to be a good friend over the past months. Right after Sherlock’s death, John had nearly punched him in the face and yelled at the whole Scotland Yard team before descending into a breakdown. It hadn’t been pretty and John wasn’t proud of it. They had just been doing their jobs, all of them. Even Anderson and Sally Donovan. Lestrade had been nearly as miserable as John. He still felt guilty about how the entire thing had been handled. The two of them supported each other.

The offer of a pint came at exactly the right moment -- John wanted to get out of here. Holing up in the conservatory wasn’t high on his list of desired Christmas activities and his family was a nightmare as usual. Without hesitation, he typed his reply:

  


>   
>  To: Greg Lestrade -- 25/12 20:52   
>  _Absolutely. My sister and parents are doing the same to me. Usual waterhole in 30. JW_   
> 

  
John stared at the screen for a while and thought about sending a second message. The joke they had started last year, but was it appropriate? Would it hurt Greg? Would it hurt _him_? John imagined Sherlock scoffing and calling him ridiculous, just like he had when Greg had initiated the joke last year. Sherlock had snatched the mobile from John’s hands and sent a scathing reply, all the while complaining about the downfall of the English language and the stupidity of people.

John had to smile. He liked remembering the good times, the amusing times, and the crazy times. It was so much better than a run from the police, fake emergency calls, and his best friend on the ledge of a hospital. Unfortunately, he remembered the latter more often. Maybe it was time to change that, bit by bit.

  


>   
>  To: Greg Lestrade -- 25/12 20:56   
>  _Meretricious, Greg. JW_   
> 

  
When he collected his jacket to take his leave, he received the answer that made him grateful to have a friend like Greg left -- the detective inspector was more family to him that the three people in the next room. 

>   
>  From: Greg Lestrade -- 25/12 20:58   
>  _...and a happy new year._   
> 

  
He didn’t feel guilty about walking out on them. 


End file.
